Outtakes

We decided to give the grandparents an updated, good picture of all the kids for Christmas, as well as individual photos of their smiling faces.

Simple, right?

After about a million "takes" and getting scolded at the conservatory for not having a photography permit (hmph!) we did manage to capture this:

Clearly, a Christmas miracle!

Wading in a Winter Wonderland

Like most Midwesterners, I am accustomed to meteorologists predicting bigger, badder, storms than what actually ever occur. Weather guys are like excited puppies whenever there’s the slightest hint of drama: they can barely contain themselves and eventually they piddle from the excitement (I'm sure of it). So you can understand why last week, when our local weather puppy started squeaking about predicted “sno-mageddon” (10 to 16 inches and whiteout conditions) I was pretty skeptical.

Well – today I stand corrected. Right behind a five-foot snow bank, that's me, eating my words. Almost 18-inches of snow fell, and the drifts are waist deep.

The weekend was supposed to be one of our insane sports weekends, with multiple basketball and soccer games scheduled. Instead, nothing. Nearly everything in our snowy metropolis shut down, even busses and plows. Driving was treacherous, even for us seasoned northerners, so we stayed in – and out, as was the case. Randy shoveled five or six times, and the kids played outside in the big snow. Ethan strapped his Nordic skis on and took advantage of the deserted streets, until the powdery stuff got too deep.

Ethan gave Abby a lesson on his skis.

I had been wondering when we were going to fit our annual Christmas cookie baking marathon in this month. Randy and I bundled up and waded through the snow on foot to the grocery store and bought three bags of ingredients, and the whole family helped bake for two days. I’ll tell you, pushing through the snow with ice stinging our eyes and visibility less than half a block, I thought a lot about Pa. Not my dad, Charles Ingalls, tying a rope from the house to the barn. Ah, I get it!

Cookie making with Madame “I DO!” (“I insist on doing every single thing my siblings do”) was... entertaining. She is an experienced little dough handler from her hours spent with Playdoh, but rolling round balls instead of long worms proved difficult for those chubby little mitts. The older girls had to do a little reshaping. But Mira was remarkably good about not putting her fingers in her mouth. I don’t think she realized that the clumpy substance caked between her fingers was really yummy until after we were done.

And if that photo didn’t destroy your appetite, nothing will.

What else might one do when snowed-in, if one were, say, a bored teenage boy?

I am quite sure this is not how I set up my Christmas village.

A Mind Like a Steel Trap. Or Not.

If time management skills and a sharp memory were pre-requisites for raising kids, I’d definitely be childless. As it is, I am probably a poor candidate for parenting four active kids with my fly-by-the-seat-of-your pants approach to organizing our lives. Despite my best efforts to keep everything straight (PostIt notes, online calendar) I am regularly caught off-guard by statements like “You remember that daycare is closed next week, right?” or “Mom, I’m so glad we don’t have school tomorrow.” (Gracie made the latter pronouncement at dinner just last week. I contradicted, “Yes, you do have school” and all three of the older kids responded in unison, “No we don’t!” …Oh.)

My absentmindedness extends beyond where are we going/when do we need to be there, unfortunately. I am a Loser of Items, especially gloves and sunglasses. Despite knowing full well that a snowstorm was imminent recently, when I left work and my car was covered with icy snow, I had to resort to scraping my window with a car bingo card, wearing this lovely “hand with no skin” glove on one hand (the other was bare).

(Why the skinless hand was in the van is a mystery, but I was glad to have it, since my gloves and scraper had apparently run off together).

My mental deficit is the source of a series of recurring dreams, which all share the same theme: unpreparedness. The most common version is my pumpkin dream. I am not exaggerating when I say that I have had this dream no less than 50 times. I dream it at least once a month throughout the year, and it’s always the same, simple plot: it’s Halloween night and as darkness falls I realize that we have forgotten to buy and carve pumpkins. I’ve had the dream so many times that now a main component of it is me exclaiming in disbelief, “I can’t believe it! I’ve had that dream so many times and now it’s actually happening!” Other recurring dreams are "I’m hosting a huge gathering and realize I don’t have ingredients for the meal"; or "It’s prom night and I forgot to get a dress" (I always am rifling through my mom’s closet in this dream, hoping that one of her business outfits will look good for the big dance). Naturally, like many other people I know, I also experience variations of the “It’s the end of the semester and I totally forgot to attend a class” dream. Apparently, though, my psyche has ranked the importance of pumpkin carving above academics, since the pumpkin dream is much more frequent.

So why, at 42, is my memory like swiss cheese? I’ve determined it’s simply misallocation of brain space. Somehow, I managed to stuff my brain completely full by about age 14, leaving no room to retain anything new. What important facts are etched in my memory instead of “Abby has an orthodontist appointment today”? Why, the name of the child actor who guest-starred as Oliver on The Brady Bunch (Robbie Rist). Entire verbatim paragraphs from “On the Banks of Plum Creek.” The lyrics from “Saturday Night” ("S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y – Night!”) and the groovy roller skating moves that went along with it at Cheapskate. And, as I demonstrated to my own dismay last weekend, Every. Single. Word. from the Dukes of Hazzard theme song – a show I swear I didn’t even watch!

Oh, how I wish I could take out the mental garbage and clear up some space so I could remember my own name. Unfortunately, I think I’m stuck with “Just'a good ol' boys / Never meanin' no harm…”

Christmas Baby (not Jesus, the other one)

My sister Melissa is due with her first baby on December 26, so we refer to him/her (her, in my opinion) as the Christmas Baby - although personally I am crossing my fingers that Melissa delivers on the first of January, not Christmas. How cool would that birthdate be? 1-1-11. It seems fictional, kind of like having a 555- phone number. (Also, if the baby comes early enough on 1/1/11, she'll get media coverage).

Oh, are we excited about this baby! Christmas Baby is going to be spoiled rotten. My sister Deb and I threw a baby shower for Melissa earlier in the month.

Deb & Gracie

Diaper cake

Sisters & Mom

Melissa with Abby & Gracie

Hello?... Hello?... Blogger?

Yes, we are still here. I've made a discovery: when life gives me lemons, I feel a greater desire to blog. However, family members who may be responsible for those lemons don't appreciate being the subject of the blog posts.

It may come as a surprise that I’ve never enjoyed keeping a journal, given that I manage to blog enthusiastically about essentially nothing most of the time. The problem (for me) with journaling is that it’s private, and I tend to broadcast my stresses to whomever will listen. Like many extroverts, I think best when I am talking, and like to talk out my problems with others. Even though blogging isn’t the same as talking, it feels like communication with others and is therefore rewarding to me.

Until there are problems too personal for the blog. That’s the case right now. No one over the age of three in the family is exactly open to living out an online reality narrative when it comes to Really Hard Stuff, and I can’t blame them. (Cavities and fury over one’s wardrobe are one thing; personal issues are another). The challenge for a certain extroverted blogger is that when jagged emotions are lurking just below the surface, making even the usual act of venting to friends painful, the blog would really serve a need, but it can’t be utilized.

And now, a light smack on my own head, in the form of a quote I like:

When I hear somebody sigh, "Life is hard," I am always tempted to ask, "Compared to what?"

- Sydney Harris

A Jackson Kind of Halloween

Halloween is always a creativity challenge. Sometimes you start with a great vision, but when you try to execute it, your homemade hooded ghost costume results in your mother asking, “Is he dressed as a nun?” (see Ethan As Ghost, circa 2001) or your Yoda pumpkin requires extensive reconstructive surgery and 31 straight pins to keep its face from collapsing.

I am happy to report that 2010 was a pretty good year for pumpkins and costumes at our house. We made costumes for Abby and Gracie that turned out like what we imagined, and the jack-o-lanterns mostly stayed intact. (Abby’s spider web was the exception – straight pin city).

Mira assisted in the pumpkin gutting this year. One might assume that a toddler would appreciate pulling mushy stuff out of a vegetable, but this is a girl who doesn’t like her hands to be messy. Also, you may recall that she made her particular neatness known to us at a very young age. (She always brings to mind the kid’s song, “There’s a Place For Everything, and Everything In Its Place”). As such, she was uncomfortable with the pumpkin guts out of the pumpkin, and after a while we realized that she was putting all the guts back in the shells.

Randy was all set to hand her the carving tools and let her have a go at a pumpkin, but when I questioned the wisdom of giving a toddler a serrated knife, he admitted that he was motivated by keeping her busy, not by providing artistic freedom. (You don’t really ever imagine having to say to your spouse, “We can’t give a two-year-old knives just to keep her out of our hair…” But there you go).

We carved while she napped.

She was a darling little cow - or “moo,” as she called her costume. (I kept thinking affectionately, “How Now, Brown Cow?” when I looked at her. Is that weird?) She liked trick-or-treating with me, but wanted to be carried for some reason. I think she was a little weirded-out by the other costumed kids on the street. I didn’t mind carrying her, except I started to worry that I looked like one of those trashy trick-or-treaters my sister and I ridicule. (You know the ones. They come from a different neighborhood and go door-to-door for hours with their un-costumed three-month-old baby, filling a pillowcase with candy meant for children. Children old enough to have teeth). I swear, Mirabelle and I only went to see the neighbors we know!

Here are lots of pictures from the big night.

Pippi, cow and candy

Sweet little moo-er

Gracie as Pippi

Abby as our fave candy (Mmm, Reeses!)

"Aztec Sun" by Jules

"Carnivore" by Abby

"Toddler Tantrum" by Jules

(I have no idea) by Gracie

"Crazy Monster Face" by Ethan

"Grinch" by Jules

"Webby" by Abby/Randy

"Werewolf" by Ethan

"Stitches" by Gracie

"Three-Eyed" by Randy

"Snoopy" by Gracie

The Patch: an Annual Tradition

I have two parenting strengths (exactly two. No more, no less). I'm not going to tempt fate or jinx myself by actually naming the first one - you never know when good behavior might suddenly go south! But the other is family traditions. We are BIG on family traditions, from major (our annual July 4th celebration) to minor (all of us whistling circus theme music when we drive by particularly tacky Christmas light displays).

The pumpkin patch is an important annual tradition for us, even though pumpkins growing in the patch often cost more than the ones at Cub, and some years the pickins at the patch are a little slim. It's all about the experience, baby. Oh, and sometimes at the patch you might discover a pumpkin with a butt crack or pointed head or Gorbachev birthmark. A perfect carving specimen! You're not going to find that at Cub.

Here are some pictures from last weekend. Enjoy a little circus theme music while you view them.

Julius Fucik - Entry of the Gladiators mp3

Another Birthday for the Books

Here are some things that might happen on your birthday if you are mom to four kids:

• The youngest two girls crawl into your bed and wake you up with a sweet snuggle and heart-felt "Happy birthday, Mom!" - or in the case of the articulation-challenged child, "Mmm-pee bee-bee Mama!"
• Because the older kids eat ravenously and constantly, all your money goes toward groceries and you can't afford to go out to dinner. You make one of your favorite dishes, shepherd's pie. Everyone likes it, particularly the two-year-old, who discovers that she can form balls out of it with her hands when no one's watching. (Shepherd's pie balls are, as everyone knows, best stored under one's butt, if one is seated in her high chair).
• You are given lovely flowers at work, which you bring home from the office so you can enjoy them every day. Within an hour you are sweeping up dirt in the dining room and re-assembling the plant because someone's spastic arm knocked it off the table. (All these growth-spurty limbs aren't exactly graceful).
• You spend the evening shopping! Birthday gifts, baby!: a purse, fake nails and lip gloss. No, not for yourself. One of the kids is attending a birthday party the next day. (Did I mention the purse is adorned with peace signs and rainbows, and the fake nails have unicorns on them?)
• You count your blessings as another year begins, feeling so incredibly thankful for these kids, this life!

Mercury falling - and I'm not talking about weather

Incredibly, incredibly, Randy and I dealt with spilled mercury from a broken thermometer this weekend. Why is this incident incredible? Because this is the second time we’ve experienced a hazmat event of this type in our house.

A few years ago, when one of the kids was sick and we were blissfully ignorant about the potential dangers of good old-fashioned mercury thermometers, Gracie knocked one off the table as she walked past. It broke on our wood floor in the dining room. When I had a free moment I swept up the little silver balls and vacuumed the room for good measure.

I barely gave it another thought until later that evening, when the top local news story was, coincidentally, about a small mercury spill at a high school. There were pictures of students lined up to turn in their shoes to a hazardous waste team. ("Hmm...," my keen mind observed. "That's a little troubling.") A quick Google search of "broken mercury thermometer" yielded results from hundreds of sources that all said the same thing:

• Never use a vacuum cleaner to clean up mercury. The vacuum will put mercury into the air and increase exposure.
• Never use a broom to clean up mercury. It will break the mercury into smaller droplets and spread them.

Oops.

A hands-and-knees examination of the spill site revealed lots of tiny mercury balls huddling together down in the cracks of the wood floor, out of reach. I still felt like, c'mon, it's just a broken thermometer, but it was seeming a little less like "no big deal" to co-exist with elemental mercury after I'd read the EPA info. We decided to call and ask if those little balls were actually problematic.

Fast forward to the next day, as our house is being occupied by men wearing the head-to-toe hazmat protection straight out of ET, testing every inch of our space with a Lumex unit, which detects mercury. After power-sucking every surface in the house with a Dr. Seuss-looking industrial vacuum machine, the team identified contaminated items and put them in huge, sealed drums outside. I said goodbye to my area rug, a few pairs of shoes, an entire load of laundry, a brand-new vacuum and, of course, the broom. Our washing machine and the carpet on the stairs were both slightly contaminated. The hazmat guys suggested keeping the doors and windows open (in sub-zero temps) to air out the carpet and running the empty washing machine repeatedly. We did both, and when the team came back the next day for a re-check the carpet and the washing machine passed.

Let me now pause to address the skeptical reaction I know is occurring for some readers. It goes something like this: When I was a kid, we played with mercury/handled broken mercury balls in the sink/a mercury thermometer broke in my mouth/etc./ and I was fine!

Here's me, wildly shrugging my shoulders.

I believe it. But when you read about the health effects of long-term exposure to even small amounts of mercury, you kind of feel like it's not wise to ignore the EPA's advice, particularly with a house full of kids. (Incidentally, mercury cleanup is definitely not a government money-making conspiracy, because it didn't cost us a cent).

So, one would think we'd have gotten rid of any remaining mercury thermometers - right? Certainly I thought so.

I found out otherwise on Saturday, when Ethan asked if we still had any mercury thermometers in the house. "No way!" I said. "Why?" He was visibly relieved. "Oh, that's good, 'cause I needed a Ziplock bag and the only one I could find had a thermometer in it and I took it out and it accidentally dropped on the floor because it was way up in this high cabinet." He shrugged. "Now there's this metal looking stuff all over the place."

Metal-looking stuff. I clung to the hope that it was some copper circuitry from our digital thermometer, but I even as I made my way to the spill site, I couldn't really imagine why we would have a digital thermometer stored in a plastic bag on the top shelf of an upper cupboard.

Randy later explained that after the first incident, he had located another mercury thermometer in the house. Knowing we needed to deliver it to the hazardous waste site instead of just tossing it, he had temporarily hidden it away - in the highest cupboard in the kitchen, behind a collection of cookbooks, in a sealed plastic bag. Like many items in our disorganized lives, the thermometer was promptly forgotten. Until Ethan desperately! needed! a plastic bag. For some reason.

Here's me, shaking my head.

The mercurial silver lining of this incident, I guess, is that I knew not to vacuum, sweep or walk through the spill site this time. Randy and I spent six hours meticulously picking up mercury balls with shaving cream, duct tape and other EPA-recommended supplies. Ironically, I had to send Ethan to the store to pick up one necessity: Ziplock bags.

School(s) of Rock

Today Ethan began his career as a high school student, Abby started middle school, and Gracie transitioned to the big kids' world in elementary school (meaning the green and tan playground instead of the tamer blue and yellow one, among other things).

The family member who struggled most with these transitions? Randy. He always gets nostalgic and depressed when he feels the years zooming by. The poor guy spent the morning clutching his upset stomach, trying to come to terms with the fact that we are indeed the parents of a full-fledged high schooler. (Apparently the fact that Ethan's been playing high school soccer every day for the past month did nothing to prepare Randy for reality of actual high school).

Ethan himself had no trepidation about starting a new school, and left the house with a big smile. Abby was a little more nervous. Gracie? Well, it was a mostly smooth morning, although there may have been one angry outburst from her room about "stupid jeans," following a battle with an uncooperative adjustable waistband. (She voiced her opinions via the baby monitor, of course).

"I insist on being a part of everything my siblings do!"

Watching for Gracie's bus

And what might one do, if one's siblings were away for the day? Why, quietly sneak into their rooms and rifle through those off-limit drawers! I caught her red-handed with a tin of Tic Tacs from Abby's nightstand. It was all very funny until I took away the candy and removed her from Abby's room. Then the anger erupted. (I should have photographed that).